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After being dumped, Isla Morris makes a pact with her ex's biggest competition, F1 driver Matthew Carr, to get inside Lucas's head.
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Isla Morris is dating the world's best F1 racer - at least, she w...
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Isla Morris hadn't planned to die today, but it seemed that the motorcyclists of Barcelona had other plans for her.
She jumped to the pavement. A candy red bike zipped by her, carving around tourists and tandem bikes, palm trees and parks. The scent of sulfur and saltwater hung in the air. She caught snippets of foreign words — buenas tardes — and laughter drifted up from a cobblestone patio.
Another motorcycle ripped past her. Isla let out a yelp.
"Still alive?" Tiff asked.
"Barely," she huffed.
"Not to be a harbinger of doom," Tiff said, "but don't you think it would be ironic if you got hit by a car?" Her flatmate's voice crackled over the phone. "Considering you're dating a race car driver?"
"Again, we're not actually dating." Isla frowned up at a building. "Do you reckon I'm at my hotel already?"
"Does it look hideously expensive?"
"Yup."
"Then yes." Tiff slurped something. Noodles, probably. "I don't understand why you didn't just fly over with Matthew."
Isla sighed. Matthew had invited her to fly over from London with the Ferrari team on a private plane stocked with chocolate bars, heated seats, and rose-scented lotions. The only problem was that it was also stocked with Lucas.
"You know why," Isla said. "He'd be there."
More noodles slurped. "I'm confused. Don't you want Lucas back? Not," Tiff added quickly, "that I'm encouraging it. I am the opposite of encouraging it. Firmly discouraging, for the record."
Isla went through revolving glass doors. "I don't want to see him. Not yet."
"And Matthew?" Tiff asked slyly.
Isla parked her suitcase by a polished table. She was suddenly glad that Tiff couldn't see her face because any mention of Matthew made her think of kissing Matthew. And kissing Matthew had been...
Well.
She wasn't thinking about that.
"Why," Isla said mildly, "would I care about seeing Matthew?"
"Wow." Tiff whistled. "That's some deep denial, babe. If I could lie to myself that well, I'd be out of student debt and own a hundred pairs of shoes."
"And on that note," Isla said, "I think I'll be going. Love you."
Tiff made a kissing noise. "Love you more."
Isla shoved her phone away, dragging her suitcase into a polished lobby. Really. Everything was polished: the teardrop chandelier, the sleek black couches, the marble floor... She had taken exactly two steps through the door before a bellhop darted forward, looking as if he'd also been buffed with a shoe-shiner.
